"Hey!" I bellowed.
"All right, all right."
He came from the back of the store. He wore glasses, and he had a shock
of black, unruly hair that toppled onto his forehead, giving his thin
face a disheveled look.
"Where's your boss?" I asked.
"What?" He lifted his eye-shade, stared at me curiously. "Who?"
"Your boss. The fat guy with the bald head and the mustache."
He stared at me for another moment. "I don't know what you're talking
about," he said at last.
"Look," I said, "your boss. The little guy who sold me the typewriter."
"What typewriter?" he asked blankly.
"The typewriter! My God, man, don't you know anything that goes on
around here? The Remington Noiseless portable. The one that was in the
window."
"A Remington? In my window?"
"Yes," I said patiently. "Right in your window." I pointed without
turning around. "Right out there in your window. There. In the window."
"You're mistaken," he said.
"I'm not mistaken. Don't be foolish. I came in here this afternoon and
bought a typewriter. A Remington Noiseless portable. It cost me five
dollars, and...."